


Stars Fading But I Linger On

by joker_mags, RoseHeart



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Future, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Winterfell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-07 11:53:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3173086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joker_mags/pseuds/joker_mags, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseHeart/pseuds/RoseHeart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jaime and Brienne face war and strife and separation at the end of all things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stars Fading But I Linger On

**Author's Note:**

  * For [drifting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drifting/gifts).



> This story is dedicated to a person that has given all of her love and support to me and Mags and we cannot thank her enough for how much she has inspired us, with her excitement and her care, and fueled us on. Thank you, our dear Jess.
> 
> This story is a collaboration between myself and the beautiful and talented Mags. The plot was created by her and approved every step of the way. The gorgeous drawings are hers, and hers alone. And with her agreement, I’ve put her ideas in to words. And I could not be more excited for this! Please note that Mags is putting a lot of trust in the fandom and no one is allowed to take these pieces of art as their own.
> 
> We would also like to thank Coraleeveritas for taking the time to read over this story and to help make it better, as she always does. And to Sandwichesyumyum for all of her lovely words. And, finally, to Tamjlee for being an amazing source of encouragement.

Running. Fleeing. _Coward_. _Fool_.

The words hammered in her head just as hard as the sound of her horse’s hooves striking rock and ice. She could have lost herself in the forest, gnawing on the ragged edges of her thoughts. But she was not alone. And that kept her moving forward with purpose, even though it was in the opposite direction her heart and her head were screaming at her to go.

After so many days and nights of flight as slow as molasses and as raucous as a hive, they finally found a crop of stones and caves that were large enough to shelter the considerable party. Once horses had been tethered, fires had bloomed, and packs were upended and spread about in dirt and snow, Brienne allowed herself to retreat to a lone spot looking out into the bare and battered forest blanketed in ice and cold.

Like the frozen tears of water hanging from the branches, she had clung desperately to the arduous journey, through the dangerous terrain of the north, to cloud out her haunting thoughts. But now, as the hum of the whispered voices of the women and the infantile and the elderly and the irreplaceable climbed over one another, melting in to the clinks of armor and the sighs of mounts, she had nothing to drown out the cresting waves of her nightmares. 

It had been eight nights since the dragons had been spotted, gleaming shards of painted glass piercing the grey winter skies, six nights from when riders had returned to report of an army clad in colors of pitch and blood, riding under the Targaryen banner, and four endless and empty nights since King Stannis had ordered the evacuation of Winterfell. Even with Baratheon and Stark forces united, even with the Red Woman chanting of victory and fire, the risk was too great and Brienne had readily agreed that the future of the north needed to be safe. And Winterfell would soon no longer be safe.

But she had not expected to be commanded to flee with the knights and soldiers that could be spared, burdened with the task of running away, to keep secure those that would easily become victims, distractions, and inconveniences in the midst of war. Her place was always with a sword in her hand, situated directly between enemies, shielding the innocent and vulnerable from the evil. _With him by my side_. Yet, she was also dutiful, something she considered a fault these days, and when she was told to leave and protect, especially when it was keeping her charge unharmed, she was merely a hollow shell of ‘yes, sir’s.

That could not stop her tired, broken mind from clambering to remind her of the secret reasons why she had wanted to stay. It was simple and frightening, the way in which even in a crowded castle, bursting with common people and wildlings, lords and knights, Jaime could find her.

_Was it only a fortnight ago that we had paused on the battlements?_

It had been a rare, clear night, clouded only with plumes of her steamy breath as she walked her turn around the inner walls of Winterfell. Jaime had come upon her along the narrowed walkway beside the Hunter’s Gate, carving his own path as he also stalked a shift on guard. They had paused wordlessly, and had looked up at the winking and sparkling stars that splayed across the creamy black sky like flour spilled over granite. High above the torches and fires in the belly of the castle, the pair was washed in cold and darkness, allowing them to spot every blinking light above.

Feeling Jaime’s shoulder pressed against her own, she had swallowed and struggled for words. “The stars. They look different than from on Tarth.”

Jaime grunted and looked at her, just a glint of green and a flash of white through the evening as he had chuckled. “Some things will always be the same, though.”

Not knowing what else to say, Brienne had merely nodded and moved to squeeze past him, their armor sliding together as they barely had room for clearance. Jaime’s hand had been on her arm, helping her keep her balance as he pulled them together to stop either from toppling over the wall. But when they had successfully shifted around each other, and should have continued their pacing, his palm had drifted down her arm, creating a path of liquid heat like steel melted down before it could cool to an edge.

They both watched as he caught her hand and, in a blink, had bowed to press his lips to her fingers. “Duty calls, my lady,” he had murmured with a smirk.

She had snarled at his teasing and he had laughed, leaving his mirth hanging in the chilled air like a fog, as he tossed a wave over his shoulder and resumed down the battlement. Brienne turned away from him and proceeded on, unknowingly rubbing at her hand, which felt like a burn had been branded in the thin, vulnerable flesh, a shadow of his lips forever marked on her.

Groaning, Brienne shoved the memory away and forced her aching limbs, heavy beneath her tarnished armor, the blue having been lost, a little at a time, in the heat of battle, to move and lift her up. She brushed the snow from the backs of her legs and hobbled down to the cave where she had left men to stand guard, worrying at the bitter thought that there were so _many_ of them. There was a knight for every handful they were tasked to protect. Often Brienne found herself simply wandering amongst the ranks and lines as they crawled along, lost in what purpose she could truly serve here, with her sword having been sheathed for days and the smell of ash and steel assaulting her nostrils, no matter how far they trekked.

“Lady Brienne,” Brandon Norrey greeted with a nod from his post against the stone wall. He was a towering, thick man, made even larger by his tussle of brown hair and a beard spilling over his shoulders. He was still young, and stubborn, since he called her a lady despite her protests, hardly older than Brienne, but he walked with a limp that would surely kill him in battle, despite the massive broadsword strapped to his back. “Lady Stark is settled and I’ve notified her we will be continuing before first light.”

“Fine,” Brienne sighed. “How is her cough?”

“Better. Maester Pylos found some thyme to brew.”

She nodded. _Jaime will be relieved_. The thought sprung out from the dry desert of her mind, budding before she could stamp it down to the cracked earth. She grimaced at being so weak. But still it bubbled up, like the idea had triggered the monsoons, the images and words flooding in.

After King Stannis had announced the clearing of the castle, the commanders had named the men that would stay behind and those that would escort the party to Deepwood Motte, fleeing further if Winterfell could not at least hold back Queen Daenerys’s army. And Jaime had stood, staring at the cold stone wall between the shoulders of two lords, chanting out names, clipping off the ends like he was cutting the anchor from a ship. He did not falter when he snapped off her own, nor did he look at her, just continued on, calling out those under his command and staring at the spot that was more important than her, looking like an aged god made of frigid gold and steel.

She hated herself for seeking him out afterwards, knowing that he had been purposely avoiding her. But she found him all the same, looking over the outer walls towards the Wolfswood. Despite the snow flitting and flying, refusing to fall, his cape was thrown back, revealing his newly polished armor in the blessed few hours of light they had these days.

“Why?” she had demanded, ignoring the few beats her heart skipped at seeing him alone.

“Sansa Stark is the reason we are all fighting,” he rumbled, voice nothing but an avalanche and a churning sea, refusing to meet her eye. “Tell me you would trust anyone else with her safety.”

“Her safety is better assured if I am _here_ and we defeat the queen,” Brienne had snapped back. Unlike their other, and numerous, arguments, she was the one burning up from frustration and anger, fingers itching for sword and shield, while Jaime was cool composure, hands at his side and unmoving. It churned up the thin stew of rat and roots that she had tried to swallow that morning.

Finally, _finally_ , Jaime had turned to look at her and the image of his face was still a flash behind her eyelids whenever she blinked or tried to sleep, a brand, an echo of a darkness set against blinding light. He had smiled, and even at the end of all things, he was still so easy with his grins. But it could not hide the swirling shade of his eyes, memorizing her just as much as she was trying to commit every hair on his beard to her mind. Like this was it. The last time.

She had refused, up until the gates of Winterfell were sealed shut behind them, to believe that this is how she would part from Jaime. But his words clanged in her mind, hollow and devoid of anything but their final quarrel. “You obstinate, naive wench,” he had scolded, though it was chill breezes, rather than the simmering fire she braced herself for, and that smile still painted on his face. “Do this for me. Go.”

Whatever had been in that melancholy gaze of his had spurred her to obey, ignoring how her heart and her mind screamed for her to go back, to refuse, to fight. _For him_. But there was nothing left, save an empty brokenness, as she had regretfully turned from him and he had murmured, “Goodbye, Brienne.”

Now she could only recall that definitive image of him, so bold and scorched that it erased all of the other memories of Jaime. _Resigned_. _Already gone_ , while Brienne fled from the battle that was raging, the flares of orange crackling against the night still visible and heating her back. In all the time riding towards expected safety, she could not understand why it was that Jaime would send so many with the party and why he felt that even that number was not enough, how he could send an able bodied soldier like herself away from war.

They had not come across any scavengers or beggars or outriders. With the fires blazing, even the animals within the Wolfswood had outrun them so that there was not even a deer to hunt, nor a bird to wake them, or a wolf to prowl the outskirts of camp, hoping for a weak one to stray. And they had received word that men from Deepwood Motte would meet them in the woods, adding to their escort for the rest of the journey.

Brienne was torn, ripped asunder and littering the path they had taken, from being pulled further and further from Winterfell. It was too much to contain and as Norrey continued to rattle about the recovering health of Lady Stark, she began to pace restlessly, trying to find needle and thread in her mind to stich herself back up.

But only one man could do that.

“Norrey,” she interrupted. “Do you have any concern for the protection of the people here?”

“Of course not, my lady,” he replied, blinking away confusion. “Stannis ensured that Lady Stark was properly escorted. Ser Marlan says we are making excellent time.”

Brienne nodded, pressing on. “We are. And would my absence truly hinder or harm our progress?”

Before he could answer, the mouth of the cave was thrown in shadow as a slight form, piled with furs, emerged from deep within, a dark figure against the warm and welcoming fire inside. Brienne and the guards turned towards her and bowed low with the whine of armor drowning out their murmured, breathy greetings.

“You have shown immense loyalty fleeing Winterfell with me,” Lady Stark addressed Brienne. She tossed back her white, lined hood, throwing her auburn tresses to the light from the fire and sparking flames framing the porcelain of her skin, alighting the dusting of freckles and piercing light into the blue pools of her hard gaze. “But you are a strong knight. Though King Stannis sees the north in _me_ , I am nothing without some weight to cling to in this world. And I would mourn the loss of my home, _again,_ should it fall to my enemies. Go back, Brienne.” Despite that being the dismissal Brienne had hoped for, she still paused. “Go.”

With a final bow, Brienne plowed through the snow dragging at her boots, huffing and desperate to reach her horse and to speed back to Winterfell. As she rushed through the groups of people lingering near the fires in the camp, she kept her eyes firmly on the distance where, above the thin, reaching, naked branches of the forest, stretching like bones from the earth, she could make out the coils and clouds of smoke and sparks against the blackness of night.

_Wait, Jaime. Wait for me. Whatever happens. Just let me be there with you for it._

She called to her mount before she had even fully settled in to the saddle. But time was her enemy now. It had taken them four days to reach this stand of rocks, but if she rode hard, she could return to Winterfell in just over a day. She did not pause to think of what could be taken from her even in those precious moments between now and then.

Skeletal branches whipped by her face, but she felt not cold nor pain. Her horse weaved between the trees, panting and snorting with the frenzy that pulsed from its rider and seeped from her squeezing thighs. Brienne let it run, trusting and uncaring what path it took as long as it was always heading towards the flames, forward to battle, to Jaime. _To Jaime. To Jaime._

If the sun rose and set, she never knew. The world was lit by brilliant orange and angry red, sparking with bolts of harsh yellow and searing white. And when the flames died or moved, she was washed in plumes of black smoke, thick with ash and the screams of men and horses and dogs. Above it all was the constant roar, not of the woods consumed in fire or of the castle turning to cinder or of the brave battle cries of the army. It was unlike any sound that Brienne had heard, primal and hungry. It was the flap of leathery wings turning the sky into a battlefield, the roll of thunder and fire swirling in a ballooning belly, the explosion of air in to wild flames. The dragons never stopped their assault.

Still, she rode hard. No fear could touch her. And when her horse bucked and refused to charge into the gate that was nothing but burning iron, Brienne slid off and charged into the castle on foot. It was darker than the night, in the courtyard. She trusted her memory of the layout to skim the walls to her right, drawing her sword as she coughed up soot and blinked away tears and ash.

Through the numbness that took her body, she strained to listen, to let the sounds swirling in the smoke draw her towards allies. The clash of steel and the moans of dying hummed beneath the roaring but they did not guide Brienne.

She was so consumed with listening that she forgot to be on her guard and all that saved her right arm from being shorn from her body was the flash of metal against the fire, which sent her flying to the dirt. Hissing from the heat of the ground slithering up through her armor, she scrambled to her feet and searched for her attacker. How could she know friend from foe? The hesitation would stay her sword long enough to get her killed. But still she searched instead of slashing.

A swirl of air beside her warned her first and she backed away. With the light coughed out from the clouds, Brienne caught sight of the curve of an arakh. She swung her blade, thinking of lost hands, lost hearts, but only cut through searing hot air. Gritting her teeth, biting down on the lost time from this pause, she moved towards a shadow amongst shadows until she could make out an arm raised for another blow. With both hands wrapped around Oathkeeper, and she meant to stay true to that name, she kneeled, just before the blade sliced down, and thrust her sword up to cut through plating and flesh and bone. She waited long enough to feel the final shudder of life before she wrenched Oathkeeper away with one quick sob and then got up to plow on, unable to watch the body drop.

There were others as she forced her way deeper in to Winterfell. Some were large and tanned with oiled beards, others were pale and smaller, young and clean shaven. But all fell just the same beneath her blade. By the time she had made it to the doors of the Great Keep, Oathkeeper was red like the fires burning around her and was just as hot in her gloved hand.

Brienne had caught sight of grey and white, wolves and stags, though she did not know if the sigil was burning, or the men bearing it. The Starks and Baratheons that she found were either dipping in and out of the smoke or she had to walk over their bodies as she progressed. But she paused at every one, needing only a moment to know that it was, blessedly, not the man she was searching for. Those that she caught running, she followed, hoping to come across a group gathered in the dark, caring only that Jaime was amongst them.

There was so much noise, the shouting and the burning, and the smoke was thickening as she neared the godswood. Her senses were drowning, screaming for air as she fought to hear or see anything that could guide her to Jaime. For a few heartbeats, she felt panic rise in her as her mind counted the corpses she had added to the pyre that the castle was becoming while she could find no escape, no ally, no Jaime. And she wondered about dying there, without ever seeing him again, though he could be a hand’s breath from her and she would never know it. If his body had already burned, she would never find him. _And what if he’s alive and_ I _burn? He will never find_ me.

Just as the dread was rising up her throat, coating her tongue and nose, one voice rose above the others. “Tormund, get him behind the lines! Umber, your men need to tighten up and move west!” _Jaime_. _Jaime_. _Jaime_. _Alive_. _Here_. It was a war drum pounding in her head, a beacon for her to find land, a gust of winter frost winding its way through one of the seven hells she had found herself in.

She waited, still unsure of where he was, afraid to move in fear it was away from him. And she never wanted to take another step that was not in the direction of Jaime. But the smoke was becoming thicker, muffling out the voices and stuffing coils down her throat, causing her to cough fitfully.

“Someone get him to a maester, if there’s one left!”

To her right. That was where he was.

But, just as she stepped closer, a dark form emerged from the wrap of clouds and soot, its arm already swinging wide. _No._ _No!_ Brienne could count the layers of leather around the hilt as the butt of a sword rushed towards her face. _Jaime. He’s here. He’s close_. The pain was a flash of white, winter, sunny sky. But as the world turned darker than the night and the smoke, Brienne saw only emerald. _Please. Stay alive. Jaime._

And then, there was nothing.

 

 

It could have been years or moments before Brienne became aware again. She knew in a heartbeat what had lifted and carried her from the abyss, keeping her safe inside a strong embrace that fought against the cloying tendrils of unconsciousness that still tried to wrap around her and pull her down. It was his voice. It may have been an echo, the last that she had heard, but could not remember, or her mind playing and configuring plain words he had said before and she had memorized and saved to keep for a dream. But it was him.

“How can you not have a number of wounded? Did they not teach you to _count_ at the Citadel?”

She heard him before she could feel the sharp sting on her temple, the throbbing ache in her arm, the scratch of fabric brushing against her hands and neck. They were fast becoming weights to ground her, but they were still like images on her periphery, hazy and inconsequential compared to the booming hum of Jaime’s voice waking her fitfully. He was the white snow churned up by horses’ hooves and tainted with mud and soot, burnished gold dented and used but still brilliantly catching the sun, hardened leather and sharp steel, protective and deadly. But his voice, to her, was a soothing balm. She was where she was supposed to be now.

“Find Maester Samwell, then, and _I’ll_ track down the supplies that you need. No one is dying _after_ they’ve survived that fucking battle.”

As the pain bubbled up through her mind and seared away the strength of his voice, Brienne struggled to call it back, to have him surround her again. “Jaime,” she groaned.

There was a pause, a blessed stutter in time as the sound of him did not retreat any further. “What did you say?”

The mumbled, hurried denial mattered little to Brienne. She tried to open her eyes, but the sliver of white hot light that flooded in between her lashes forced her to slam them shut in surprise and pain. Perhaps she had died. Perhaps Jaime had as well. Or she was still gripping to the peace that was his presence, while she had been tossed in one of the seven hells. There could not have been so much pain in one of the heavens, after all.

“Jaime,” she sobbed, rolling to her side, away from the heat of light, though it was not the burn and snap of flames that she was used to, and on to her uninjured arm.

“There. Who is that?” He was getting louder, hard steps speeding back towards her, followed by a lower voice. “I don’t give a _fuck,_ right now _. Who. Is. That?_ ”

 _Has he forgotten me? Was it all just a dream and we never truly met?_ But Brienne knew that could not be the truth, not when she could so easily bring to mind the small smile playing on his lips when she had been persistent before she had left Winterfell, the tuck of his soft hair behind his ears so that she could see the jade burn of his eyes as he stared sadly and hungrily at her. The hope of being able to see that face again caused her to try to open her eyes once more. “Jaime.”

It was darker lying on this side, though the light still cast against a rough, warped door that was closed by her feet. As she blinked and watched the dust burst and swirl in the shafts, she saw the knob turn as it creaked and screamed against her ears. Squeezing her eyes shut and hissing in pain, she could still feel when the large, heated presence swarmed and filled the small room.

“No,” Jaime moaned. “No. _No. No!_ ”

She heard him take two large steps, coming close to the cot she was on. But then he stopped. And if her lungs had not been fighting against a jumble of clattering ribs and a brace of tight bonds, she would have cried out for the loss. He was so close, this roiling thunder of command and fury that she wanted to be wrapped up in, though she could not understand why he was so enraged. Maybe she was dead and he was looking down at her corpse.

“How did she get here?” There was more worried, hasty muttering. “Bring me someone who _knows_ how she got here or I will cut down every man and maester who I come across that cannot tell me how _Brienne of Tarth_ is _injured_ in _Winterfell_.” He was like the roaring of dragons spouting flames over the castle, crackling and spitting as sparks burst from their teeth.

When Brienne managed to open her eyes once more, with another groan of discomfort, she saw his blurry form take a step back. “Jaime,” she whispered, fearing he would shimmer away or fly from the room.

She was met not with the resigned and reserved commander that she had envisioned during the days and nights of escape and heartbreak, but by a lion with gnashing jaws and muscles twitching as lightning fired along his cheeks and neck, fisting and uncurling his trembling hands, and twisting his lips in to a rictus of hot rage. He stood straight at the end of her cot, looking down upon her weak form as she struggled to sit up and blink away the ripped images of him and the hope of his pleasure at finding her.

“ _You_ ,” he snarled, jabbing a finger at her like it was a dagger, as if she was the enemy she had fought through so many to get to him. “You were supposed to have been gone.”

“I was.” She hated how strained and soft her voice came out. “I was gone.”

“You were supposed to be _safe_ ,” he said, yelling over her.

“King Stannis sent enough men with Lady Stark,” Brienne tried to explain. _Please, please understand_. “She was safe.”

“I’m not talking about the fucking girl, Brienne.” Jaime swallowed and choked on her name, turning away to pace the three steps that was the edge of the room while he pulled at his hair with one hand. “Why can’t you just _listen_ for once?”

With a gasp of pain that fell out of her mouth as a rattle of air, she managed to prop herself against the wall, though she was still curled in on herself and on her side. But now at least Jaime was not towering over her as much, as he eyed her warily like she was the predator, instead of the one wounded and hardly able to move. “I had to come back,” she argued, falling in to their sparing of words like she was settling in to a fighting stance. “There was little I could do with Lady Stark. I should have been _here_.”

“Here, so that you could end up held together by some linen?” Jaime tossed his stump at her to indicate her chest. She lifted her chin and pulled the blanket up higher. “Why? Why, when you were gone, alive, _safe_ , could you not just have kept going? _Why?_ ”

“Jaime,” she sighed. _How can he not know? None of that matters if he’s not going with me_. “That’s...that’s not what... _we_ do. We fight.” _We argue. But words are wind._ “We protect-”

“Yes, by the gods,” he interrupted. Abruptly, he stomped up the length of the cot, too quickly for Brienne to react, and grabbed and pulled her shoulder, her uninjured shoulder, and yanked her to sit. Her chest protested, but the sudden weight on her torso was alleviated when Jaime wrapped his other arm around her, easily holding her heavy form. “And you had to almost destroy that.” He shook her, not hard enough to cause her much pain but with a force that made her scrabble to try to cling to his armor. “And for what? Glory? Duty? _Pride_?”

“No,” she moaned, weakly pushing at him, though he would not let go. “It has nothing to do with any of that.”

“Then, why, Brienne?” He shook her again. “Tell me. Tell me!”

She closed her eyes, feeling tears escape and trickle down her cheeks. When Jaime stopped to lean his forehead against hers, pulling her to him, she sobbed in exhaustion, in agony, in relief. “You. I came back to be with _you_.”

There was a pause in which Jaime drew his head back, green gaze wide and searching, lingering on the wound on her head. She could not watch the thoughts stream past his eyes, as he must be thinking of how to explain to a young, ugly maid of the impossibilities of a crippled, disreputable, but still brave and handsome, knight ever loving her. “You stupid, stubborn wench.” She sighed, waiting for the rest. But Jaime dipped his head so that he could capture her blurred vision. “How mad must you be to return to the seven hells for a man as idiotic as me?”

She scoffed, forgetting her heart and her pain as she dared to look at him. She was surprised, though, to find the anger had ebbed away and that soft smile returning, though now it flitted up to his eyes, holding hers with a mischievous glint. “I-I am _not_ mad, Ser.”

“I may be the mad one and I actually died on the battlefield,” he groaned. “It tore me up inside to send you away, Brienne, but I had to know that you would live. I was sure that this night would have been the end of us, but I would do anything to make sure it would not be for you.”

Brienne blinked up at the sunlight piercing through the shutters. _He was protecting_ me _, not Lady Stark?_ “What do you mean...”

Leaning in close enough that Brienne could taste his breath caressing her lips, Jaime wrapped his stump around her shoulders and ran his hand up her neck to tilt her chin so that she would look at him. And suddenly she was being held, cradled, nestled in his arms. As he moved in, her heart began thrumming in her ears, tightening her throat, narrowing her vision so that all she could see was Jaime giving her a flash of his teeth before he closed his eyes and took her lips. She tried to inhale through her nose, but the attack of her senses as she caught the scent of ash and blood and the sweet tang of his sweat, had her stuttering and sighing.

“I mean,” he rumbled darkly against her mouth. “I mean...Gods, we are both fools.” He turned his head to better take her again.

Desperate to try to return the kiss, Brienne spilled the nights of worry and emptiness into the pressure of her lips, the pliability with which she let Jaime deepen their embrace, and her fingers struggling to dig in to his plating to find the fabric beneath, soaked through with his heat. He did not seem to mind her clumsiness, since he simply kissed her harder every time she managed to pinch his mail or bite his lip.

“I-I’m not leaving again, Jaime,” she said as he moved to run his nose over her cheek, dragging it to her ear and down her jaw.

“I doubt I could make you,” he chuckled against her pulse. “But I’m not letting you go, either. We may live through this yet.”

 _I’m already living_ , Brienne thought as she dared to kiss his bearded cheek, reveling in his grunt beneath her lips. She merely nodded, though, holding the words for a time when peace and sunlight and stolen moments would not be just promises. She eagerly tipped her head back to rest on his arm encasing her as she took his kiss and returned it, feeling herself swept up in winter and fire, death and desperation, but uncaring of anything but the man that was her breath and her sword and now, her heart. _Yes_. She was alive.

 

### The End

 

**Author's Note:**

> We do not own the characters but you best believe Mags owns the art!


End file.
